


the weight of memory

by triple_phoenix



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 05, Reconciliation, fluff because i can't recover from s5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24274900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triple_phoenix/pseuds/triple_phoenix
Summary: She knows it’s Catra’s arms that wrap around her from behind; knows that it’s Catra’s breath ghosting over the small of her back, her tail sliding against calves in smooth, sweeping motions. She-Ra stills. She doesn’t turn, but her arms fold over Catra’s own, their hands interlocking. She-Ra shimmers, shrinks, until Adora lowers her head and sighs.“Bad dream?”-[Season 5 Spoilers]
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 214





	the weight of memory

  
  
  
  
There have been  ghosts, though never the right one.

— **Conchitina Cruz**

She-Ra, wind beating at her face, stands at the edge of the overhang, rigid; watches as the third moon rises from the earth, clouds burning, the sky swirling into hues of pinks and purples—never the suffocating gray and chemical green of the Fright Zone, the metallic groans that swelled in the night as she looked out from the roof of their outpost, arms rested on the rusted railing.

In her memories Catra would be perched right next to her, tail flicking at her shoulders, laughs throaty and high; complaining about anything and everything— _turning to her in silence one day, eyes low, as the both of them sigh out to the dark sky, telling her: Adora, we’re going to get out of here if it’s the last thing we’ll do, okay?_ —and she was only _Adora_ then, not She-Ra. She struggles to recall a time without sacrifice, without the chains of someone else’s destiny encroaching hers . . .

She-Ra watches, and watches, until the sky settles into a deep blue, almost black. Horde Prime’s spire, overgrown with green up in the hemispheres, glints like its own moon. It has been a week since the cleanse, but she comes to this overhang each rise of the third moon—the same way she had done on the first day, her eyes sweeping over the wooded, magical expanse sprawling around Bright Moon.

It still doesn’t feel real.

She knows it’s Catra’s arms that wrap around her from behind; knows that it’s Catra’s breath ghosting over the small of her back, her tail sliding against calves in smooth, sweeping motions. She-Ra stills. She doesn’t turn, but her arms fold over Catra’s own, their hands interlocking. She-Ra shimmers, shrinks, until Adora lowers her head and sighs.

“Bad dream?”

Catra purrs. She tucks her chin into Adora’s neck, rests it there on her shoulder. Adora has dreamed of this, has longed for Catra to hold her this way, but even now her throat still pounds. She locks their hands tighter.

“Couldn't sleep. I . . . I could still see Shadow Weaver.” Catra’s voice is so soft, so different in a way Adora hasn’t heard in years. “I wish it could have been—different.”

“I dreamt of her, too,” Adora says, “but . . . back then.”

Adora remembers the Fright Zone: the long, cold corridors and the steel floor beneath her boots, with Shadow Weaver’s deliberate hands on her shoulders, guiding her—manipulating her. She had lied to Adora all her life. She had hurt Catra. Yet she had been all they had ever known. Adora remembers inklings of her warmth—true warmth, subtle, never crossing the threshold, and she hates how it makes her ache, hates seeing the way Shadow Weaver had looked back, bare and unmasked with her tragic smile, like she had always been waiting for a chance to prove that she cared—truly cared. And now she’s gone.

“I think she’d’ve wished things were different, too.” Adora’s eyes shut. Something hitches. She feels Catra’s hold tighten, feels her drawing herself closer. Adora loosens; she turns instead to embrace Catra, breathes all of her in. “After everything she did . . . is it—wrong . . . to miss her?”

Catra doesn’t answer. Adora can tell her claws are unsheathed, the tips of her fingers soft as they trail over the bone of Adora’s hips. She shouldn’t be asking her this. Catra shouldn’t be the one holding Adora when Shadow Weaver had hurt her the most.

“I’m sorry.” Adora starts pulling back. “I don’t know. I . . . I shouldn’t have—”

“No, it’s okay,” then Catra’s there—voice so calm that it soothes—filling up Adora’s view. “I don’t know either, but . . . I don’t think she would’ve wanted us to feel like—like we owe her something.”

Adora stares at the ground, hands clenched. She can’t stop going back to Shadow Weaver’s face—her real face. And she was looking at them—actually _looking at them—_ with something more than just pride. But then Adora remembers falling to her knees, remembers the flames that had swept everything up, of the roaring blare of magic, until Shadow Weaver was gone. Really gone.

“I know we could’ve tried, we could’ve—”

Adora shakes her head; doesn’t notice her own tears until Catra wipes them away, her forehead already on hers. “She wanted us to be here.” Catra’s words tremble, and Adora knows it’s the truth, even if it hurts, even if Adora can’t stop it from hurting. “She would have done it again if she had to. That—that should mean something, shouldn't it?”

Catra is so warm. They have held each other like this before, years ago—lifetimes ago, and Adora notices only now how much it calms her. She searches for something in Catra’s eyes. “Yeah,” Adora says, finally. “Okay.”

Catra squeezes back; silent, content. They remain that way for a while until Catra, vague and secretive, lifts her head to face Adora. “You know,” she starts, and— _oh_. Adora senses it even before Catra smirks. “With all this Shadow Weaver talk, you'd think she'd be rolling her eyes right now over how _mushy_ we’re gettin’ over her.”

Adora actually snorts. She pushes Catra away. “Okay. Way to ruin the mood.”

“What, you don’t think she’d do it?”

“Oh, she definitely would.”

“Yeah, seriously. She’d be sulking over us like _this_ and go all, _Ado—ora._ Cat _ra. Succumbing to your emotions is the_ bane _of any_ worthwhile _cadet!”_

And that’s it. Adora breaks into laughter. Catra joins in, a hand on Adora’s shoulder, the both of them laughing into the night. It’s so stupid, but somehow, it helps. Adora even revels in it; enjoys the way the moonlight outlines Catra the way it never used to back in the Fright Zone. . . And then it hits—it’s been three years since she’d taken that sword, since she’d left Catra for the Rebellion. Being with her now, feeding into Catra’s warmth—she doesn’t know if it’s what she deserves.

“Hey.” Catra’s voice pulls her back in, and Adora should’ve known, of course—Catra can read right through her. Her hands grip softly at Adora’s wrists, sliding back down to her palms. “One day at a time, right?”

“I just . . .” Adora says, reluctant. “Now that she's gone . . . it feels like—like we lost a part of our past. Like we can’t get it back.”

Catra’s expression sobers a little. Her grip loosens. “We could have never gotten it back, Adora.”

Something in her sinks. “What do you mean?”

Catra lets go. “No, I mean—we _can’t_ go back to the way things were. You already know that. Shadow Weaver hurt us. She hurt me. And I— _I_ used it to hurt you.” Adora balks at that; remembers hanging off a cliff, of Catra’s crushing heat waving over the abyss, of claws digging into the skin on her back. “And I’m sorry,” she says, and Adora winces when Catra’s voice catches. “And I will never stop being sorry for it, even if I know I can’t take it back, but . . . Shadow Weaver got us out of there. She saved us. _You_ saved me. That has to count for something, right? Even after everything . . . even after I hurt you.”

“But I hurt you first.” Adora’s voice breaks. “ _I_ was the one who left.”

Catra’s ears stir. Adora knows instantly that she’s struck her; it’s by the way she sees her tail flick, how her fur bristles quickly for a second, feels her eyes burning with something distraught and unknown. _She left Catra_ , and it took her three years to come back. Adora braces, waits for what she deserves.

But Catra grabs her by the shoulders; kisses her so hard and quick it practically shocks her.

“Adora, _you idiot_. I already told you,” Catra says. “Nothing you’ll do will ever make me stop loving you.”

Catra’s eyes are still so stubborn, even if they’re soft and hopeful and glossy under the light of the third moon. Adora can’t help it. She knows she doesn’t deserve this. She smiles, then cries, then hugs Catra until _she_ starts crying too.

“God, you’re such a crybaby,” Catra says. And Adora laughs again, holds Catra close to cup the side of her face with one palm, thumbs her tears away. Adora smiles at the way Catra leans into her so easily, how her eyes dart up to hers, full and pliant, and Adora will never get tired of this. She knows she can read through Catra too; knows that Catra has always yearned the same way Adora does. Leaning in together is the only thing that feels right, that has ever felt right.

Every kiss is different and inviting and _real_ , but this time Adora doesn’t want to be modest. Hearing Catra now, as she slowly mouths over her jaw, then down to her neck and to the curve of her shoulder, Adora doesn’t think about what she deserves. She has always wanted this. Adora has always, always wanted Catra.

**Author's Note:**

> i have finished season five but after writing this i feel like season five has finished m e


End file.
